


nevermore, nevermore

by bnaz



Category: Bates Motel (2013)
Genre: Angst, Family Drama, Flashbacks, Mild descriptions of domestic abuse, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-05 00:55:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10293731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bnaz/pseuds/bnaz
Summary: a collection of norman's bleared childhood memories"mothers hold their children's hands for a short while, but their hearts forever".





	1. Chapter 1

Memories often came in flashes. A childhood with a broken woman felt scattered, swift, as if each memory were a hazy dream seen through thick fog. Norman didn’t know how many houses he had lived in, how many friends he’d made (if he’d made any), or how many places he’d seen. His entire life felt out of his reach.

His very first memory was that of a hand. A soft yet sturdy hand grabbing onto his; he remembered the silver ring wrapped around his mother’s third finger pressing hard against his palm, he remembered the warmth that enveloped his thumb as he tucked it within her grasp, and with that, he remembered the very first feeling that had ever lived inside of his young chest - the feeling of safety. With that hand, he knew he was safe. With that hand, he knew it was going to be alright. With that hand, he knew he was home. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember where they lived, what his room looked like, or how many times he’d moved. For as long as that hand was near, he was okay.

His next memory, the next he was sure hadn’t been a dream, was of those same hands. And buried in those hands laid his mother’s swollen, crying face. She sat at the edge of the toilet seat in her silky blue robe, loudly trembling against the wobbly ceramic cover that was dangerously cracked in several different places. She was so tall even sitting down, as tall as Norman standing up. He remembered this very specifically because, while tightening his thin arms around her long neck, he felt so minute, so peculiarly aware of his own size in a way a child isn’t supposed to be. Children are supposed to feel large, invincible, completely unaware of mortality or pain. At the age of five, Norman already knew the immensity of unadulterated agony. 

He didn’t know why his mother cried, not actually, not even with the loud banging of his father’s fists on the bathroom door echoing through his ears. Not when he heard his mother yell words he didn’t know, or when his father threatened to do something he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what made him so angry. He didn’t know why his mother shook so violently. But he did know, and he made a promise to himself as he shrouded his mother’s quivering head with his arms, that once he stood taller than the man on the other side of that door, once he grew stronger than his fists - he would never let him, or anyone, make his mother tremble ever again.

He remembered a bright red bike. He remembered the color because he had scrapped a large chunk of it on a ledge two days after his mom had gotten it for him, and then cried for what felt like hours until she’d gotten home from work. She’d laughed her sweltering laugh and had pressed her lips to his cold, sweaty, ten year old forehead after swiping his bangs away. He’d known it was alright when she had grabbed his hand and had laced her fingers through his. And when his father had seen the scrape, he’d yelled until the large, protruding blue vein on his forehead had risen to a near popping point, and Norman hadn’t cried.

What happened during that year they had lived in Long Island, he didn’t know. He didn’t carry a single memory of that place. The only proof Norman had of their being there was the pictured that now hung next to the staircase over the sideboard, the one his mother had taken of the both of them; a laughing twelve year old Norman holding a corn dog and a red haired Norma pretending to take a bite out of it. If you squinted, you could see in the far background a sign that vaguely read “Long Island” in bright neon green.

He couldn’t remember ever having seen his mother with red hair.

The last overpowering memory of his fourteenth year of life started with a violent push to his chest. The hands that had always been a synonym of safety and comfort violently launched him into his room, immediately locking the door from the outside after sending him tumbling backwards onto his bed. 

He didn’t question his mother’s decision to trap him where he couldn’t help her, where he couldn’t protect her from his father’s balled fists, or make it all okay. He trusted those hands with his very life, and if her hands were keeping him there, then that’s where he was meant to be. But the rage that bubbled at the pit of his stomach, and the fiery pangs of pure fury pounding in his chest willed him to kick the door down and keep the promise he had made nine years ago.

The memory ended with the distinctive sound of his bedroom key turning, unlocking the door.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a plot, just a lot a feelings

Norman often dreamt of his father’s funeral. He’d see dark red wood and feel the cold layer of varnish gliding under his fingertips as he traced the closed lid of his father’s coffin.  
He’d see the trees softly swaying to the summer breeze before walking into the dark, damp room where the wake was being held. He’d notice the mould spreading from the corners out, cracking the dull white paint as it worked its way to conquer each wall. He’d see people he had met before, clutching crumpled up tissues in their hands and clenching their jaws before passing the coffin, each of them mumbling something under their breath as they reached the top.

Even in his dreams he would always ask himself, in complete indignation, why people other than the ones whose lives had been completely turned upside down by the person’s death were allowed to attend their funeral. It didn’t feel fair that not everyone was as desolate as he was. It didn’t feel fair for a room to be filled with so many different levels of pain, but for his to be the highest.

Sam had been horrible. A horrible husband, an uncaring father, an even more terrible human, and Norman had never loved him enough to care for him while he was alive. How could he have cared for someone who’d never cared for the person who meant the absolute most to him?  
Norman didn’t know the reason behind his anguish, all he knew was that he felt it. He felt it like a punch to the gut, like a stab to the chest, like an overwhelming wave of guilt swallowing him whole.  
And when his mother laced her slender fingers through his as they sat opposite the coffin, he glanced at the gold band still wrapped around her fourth finger and his foreign guilt was suddenly replaced by a much more familiar anger.

Often he’d wake up, unsure of himself, dazed, confused if he’d dreamt of something fabricated by his high-strung imagination or of fragments of broken memories he’d long given up on. Sometimes he’d dream of his four year old self wrapped around his mother’s torso, violently shaking in her grasp while she ran through thick, dark fog. Her sharp gasps for air were all he could hear.

Norman didn’t know what they were running from, or what they were running to. But his mother’s hushed promises of safety and togetherness kept him calm despite the looming threat chasing after them. He might not have known much, but the one thing his young self was already sure of was that nothing could ever come close enough to hurt them as long as they had each other.


End file.
